


now toward the sun

by explosivesky



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, Hunger Games AU, but like...it's me. obviously neither of them are gonna die lol, descriptions of violence eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 10:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23849608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: The worst part of the Hunger Games, she’s starting to understand, aren’t the Games themselves. That’s going to awaken their basic survival instincts, trigger their desperation for life - primal, unhindered urges. No, no, the worst part of the Games is now, these few days before, when they’re taken care of so exquisitely, when shiny, beautiful things are dangled in front of them and cruelly ripped away.If any one of us deserves to live, Blake says quietly, it should be you.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 57
Kudos: 444





	now toward the sun

**Author's Note:**

> i first posted this to tumblr a few days ago and have received approximately 600000 requests to continue it, so i have given in. (also it's a lot of fun to write). this version has been edited and added to :)

On the day of the reaping, Blake never expects her own name. 

She’s never taken tesserae; her name’s in there six times because of her age and that’s it. It’s her second-to-last eligible year, and she’s six among _thousands_. She has no reason to expect her own name when some girls in her class have their names in thirty, forty, fifty times - she brushes the nagging anxiety away for days leading up, finding comfort in the words of her family, in Adam, who’s on his last year and isn’t quite as lucky.

“Twenty-one times,” he says, but he’s still scowling. “Could be worse. But it’s still a flawed system. The poorer you are, the less value your life has. Here in Twelve? The Capitol doesn’t even think of us as people.”

Blake’s heard this speech from him more often than she's heard anything else, but she hasn’t shared the hardest of his experiences and so she doesn’t interrupt. “But what do you want to _do_ , Adam?” she asks. “We can’t do anything. We can barely _survive_.” 

She doesn’t miss the brief, scornful look in his eyes before he masks it with fire. She’s survived easier than he has - with her father as the Mayor, and all - but it hasn’t been _easy_ for any of them, out in the rough, soot-covered and starved District Twelve. “You’re right,” he says, though his tone’s taken on an odd, darkly thoughtful quality. “ _We_ can’t. But victors…” he trails off, shredding a loose leaf in his hand, strip by strip. “If I were a victor, I might. I might be able to do something.”

 _Do what,_ she almost asks, but the near-crazed gleam in his eye stops her voice from its course, cages it like the pens for children on reaping day. It tells her she doesn’t want to know. 

\--

“ _Blake Belladonna!_ ” 

She rewatches the scene from third-person, as if it’s a dream she’s having, only it’s happening a split second after inside of her own skull. The perfectly manicured hand of their escort dipping into the jar and pulling out the crisp, white slip of paper with Blake’s name on it. How its edges flutter slightly in the breeze, caught between her fingers and held aloft. Blake’s hazy, disoriented walk to the steps, the hem of her dress batting against her ankles. She’s not there. She’s in the Capitol, watching herself called to the death and starting, already, to murmur about her odds. 

But Adam. She sees Adam perfectly. 

Sees him step forward to volunteer for a boy whose name Blake doesn’t even know. Sees the crowd shifting uncomfortably, uncertain what to make of the move. Sees some of them clutching their hearts, some of them shaking their heads. And she sees Adam, unable to hide the victorious smirk in the corner of his mouth.

\--

She’s allowed very little time in City Hall for her goodbyes. Her father is already gazing down at her as if measuring her body for a coffin, if there’ll be anything left of her to bury after. It isn’t cold. She’d rather take the realism; at least she’ll get an honest farewell. 

“I’m so sorry, Blake,” he says, his hand on her shoulder as her mother embraces her, weeping. “I never wanted this for you. For any of us.” 

“We did everything we could to protect you,” her mother adds on, dabbing at her eyes. But there’s nothing else to say beyond that, because ultimately, they didn’t. 

If none of us want this, Blake thinks numbly, how did we end up with it? 

She sees the video every year. She’s heard the stories of the Dark Days, the rebellion and all its casualties. How the Hunger Games was born from the ashes of those it cremated to serve as a reminder. She wonders how many more would’ve had to die for a different world to rise instead.

\--

Their mentor’s a woman named Sienna Kahn, now in her early thirties after having won her Games at fifteen. She’s tough, hard around the edges, as Blake imagines anyone would be who’s watched countless children die under their watch. Blake doesn’t _understand,_ but she understands - Sienna doesn’t want to get attached. She can’t blame her, and so she doesn’t. 

She and Adam barely speak - her silence falls to the fact that she’s on her way to her own murder. It’s a lot to process, the inevitability of your own coming death; but Adam’s? 

Well, she’s seen this quiet intensity from him before. And he’s making plans. 

\--

There’s more to work with than Sienna thinks there is: for one, she and Adam both know their way around a sword, and she’s no stranger hitting a target with a knife. Teenage boredom, she says when Sienna asks, and despite the doubt, she doesn’t push it further. 

I wanted to help people, is the real answer. When I saw how Adam had been treated, the scars on his face, I wanted to help. And when I saw how many people were like him, I wanted to do more than that.

“Your father’s a good man,” Sienna says instead, arms crossed over her body. She’s holding a far-off look in her eye, and instantly Blake knows she’s being told information specifically because Sienna thinks she won’t be alive to repeat it later. “He fought for people the only way he could, and I have no idea how he wasn’t killed for it. I thought he wasn’t doing enough, back then. But I get it now.” She fixes her gaze on Blake again, solidly in the present, still on the same train car to a mass grave. “What do you have to fight for, Blake?” 

Adam’s listening for her response, and she says the only thing she’s thought since her name was called the day before. “Honestly? I don’t know why we’re fighting at all.” 

A smile works its way to the edge of Sienna’s mouth, but it isn’t happy. It’s full of pity, and a touch of regret. “Yeah,” she says. “I used to think like that, too.”

\--

They watch the other reapings. There’s a pair of volunteers from One who seem like they come as a set, with equally stupid names: Emerald and Mercury. Then she only really remembers the girl from Two, a fourteen-year old who can’t seem to stop shaking in terror on stage, but Blake knows better than to underestimate a district of Careers - Weiss Schnee, last year’s victor from Two, appeared so small and breakable nobody paid her any attention until she was knee-deep in bodies after getting her hands on a rapier. After that, there’s the red-headed girl from three, who stands tall; a girl from five, missing an eye; and a large boy from eight, menacing with his teeth bared.

But the one reaping that sticks in her mind from the minute she sees it is the reaping from Four.

A young girl’s name is called, and there’s a brief bout of hysteria from the crowd while another girl with long, blonde hair tugs her back and volunteers in her place. The younger girl just screams, but the older girl - Yang, the escort announces - just stands on the stage, slowly putting herself back together. It’s like Blake can see it happening - see her locking her heart away. Putting all that love she has for her sister somewhere it can’t be used against her.

“Pathetic,” Adam murmurs, because he hates weakness. He’s proud to see himself volunteer, steady and confident. “To protect you, of course,” he clarifies, and nothing’s ever been further from the truth.

Strangely, all Blake can comprehend is that she’s looking forward to tomorrow, when she’ll get to see Yang in person.

\--

Their outfits are stunning, as is their debut. They have a compelling story: the mayor’s daughter from Twelve and the boy determined to keep her alive. It’s a television show, Sienna says. It’s about the narrative. Blake files that away somewhere it can’t make her sick. 

She spots that flash of blonde hair in the crowd. She thinks she sees seashells winding their way down a braid, and a net is woven to create some sort of dress. Yang clearly hates it, but she says something to the boy from her district, and he laughs. 

Laughter isn’t a simple thing to come by in the Hunger Games. She decides, for no reason at all, that she likes Yang. 

\--

Their team is riding on a high after the Tribute Parade; the crowd had gone wild, screamed her name, and she’d caught a glimpse of herself on the screens and hadn’t recognized her own face. She’d looked like something sleek and deadly, a creature slinking out of shadow. A strip of the night sky, wrapped up underneath human skin.

She’s keeping herself grounded, though, unwilling to entertain any ideas of survival. That’s a type of naivety, she thinks. Believing you can win when the only value of your life comes from the entertainment of your death.

She’s walking to the elevator when she swears she catches Yang staring at her, but she blinks and she’s only met with the girl’s profile, her chin dropped and her eyes averted down. 

\--

Yang is a mystery in the training room. She spends most of her time at the wildlife stations, learning to tie knots, painting patterns, identifying poisonous plants. She never spars, or uses _any_ of the weapons, really, but she lifts weights, punches a bag around a bit. Blake can tell everyone’s set on edge by her presence, not able to tell the extent of her power and skill. It’s uncommon to hide that sort of thing during training, but her muscles tell their own story - strong, defined, and threatening. There’s more to her than she’s allowing them to see.

That doesn’t stop Blake from watching her, though. From cataloguing where she spends her time and how it allows her to feel. She’s not as guarded as the rest of them - she seems to like making traps, because she gains this look of concentration as she follows along with the instructor, knotting rope around her fingers. She spends a little bit of time with the boy from her district, and almost against his will, he appears slightly enamored with her; in fact, a lot of them do, though they try to hide it. Blake isn’t the only one who watches her.

She’s so absorbed with the state of affairs that she doesn’t notice who _isn’t_ , but she does notice there’s an energy between her and Adam that wasn’t palpable before and now seems to be coating the room. 

“Thinking about allies, Blake?” he says over dinner, light enough to pass as a joke but sinister enough to be a threat. 

“No,” Blake says, because the only thing she’s thinking about is the quickest, most painless way to die.

She hopes she can at least see Yang, wherever she is when it happens. 

\--

Her knife sinks directly into the red dot, signaling a bullseye on their human-shaped target. She’s not paying attention to the show she’s putting on; all she’s really doing is daydreaming while she idly throws knives. It helps her think. Gives her clarity. 

They’re easy to flick. Most people don’t understand the wrist movement, the finesse - they tie it to strength, rather than purpose. That’s why Blake’s so good at it; she’s a person of precision, not power. That’d always been Adam. 

Someone is watching her. Actually, as she comes back into herself, _many_ people are watching her, but only one she cares about: Yang, back at the trap station, staring unfettered. 

Blake abruptly puts her knives down. The worst part of the Hunger Games, she’s starting to understand, aren’t the Games themselves. That’s going to awaken survival instincts, desperation for life - primal, unhindered urges. No, no, the worst part of the Games is now, these few days before, when they’re taken care of so exquisitely, when shiny, beautiful things are dangled in front of them and cruelly ripped away. 

“Why?” she can’t resist asking, kneeling beside Yang. “Why did you do it? Volunteer?” 

Yang’s eyes haven’t left her, but her fingers stall around the rope, as if surprised by the question. She examines Blake with a strange intensity, but an openness Blake still isn’t used to from any other tribute. Everyone’s either closed off or showing off, genuinity nowhere to be found - except perhaps the redhead from Three, Pyrrha. She’s been spending some time teaching a much smaller, younger boy how to throw a spear. He doesn’t stand a chance, but Pyrrha must know that. 

“Don’t you have someone?” Yang says, drops her gaze back to the knot. “Someone you’d die for?”

Her parents. Her friends. Adam. “No,” Blake admits honestly. “Nobody.” There are no cameras yet. No one to hurt with the admission. Adam had called her selfish, once; maybe he’d been right.

But Yang laughs, once and under her breath. “Maybe you’re better off that way,” she says, not unkindly. Her smile’s sad and quiet; whatever memories rise, they’re memories for her to cherish one last time. That’s how all memories feel these days. “My sister is my life.” 

“She’s lucky to have you,” Blake says, captivated by every word out of Yang’s mouth and how _real_ she sounds. There’s no show; she’s not aiming to impress, or grasping at pity. She’s here because of a choice she made, and she’ll live and die with that. Blake wonders what that’s like: to have a choice. “Not many people would do what you did.”

“Well, what about you, Belladonna?” Yang questions, sitting up a little straighter, expression a sliding door that suddenly gives way to teasing. There’s a tone underneath, though - heavy - like a lingering doubt. “And the guy who volunteered for you - to protect you, right?” 

She’s close - she’s kept her volume low. She’s not stupid. She’s playing this conversation with an angle, but it isn’t for her own benefit. 

Blake turns her head, locks onto Adam’s hand clenched around the grip of his sword, lunging strikes at a dummy. She feels the familiar uncurling of fear in her stomach, a dark and massive shape lingering just below. Ominous and foreboding.

“Yeah,” Blake says, and looks away. “He did.” 

Picking up on her discomfort isn’t hard, and it isn’t something she’s actively tried to mask; Yang pauses strangely, gaze flickering between them. She infers, “It’s not a good thing, is it.” And trains her focus on Blake again. “It’s not good that he’s here.” 

“I don’t know,” Blake admits. She picks at the frayed edges of another rope. “He - I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Maybe you aren’t.” 

“He wants me to believe it is,” she says finally. “He told me all he wants is to see me safe.”

“And you think he’s lying?” Yang asks, like a story she’s invested in, though Blake isn’t quite sure why. Investment isn’t wise when it can’t end in anything but disappointment.

She answers truthfully, though. For some reason, she feels like she owes Yang that much. “I think,” she starts, and at last puts into words what exactly has haunted her since the reaping days earlier, “that Adam wants to win, and he thinks he can use me to do that. Use my loyalty to him.”

The knot effortlessly tightens and unravels between Yang’s fingers. It seems to be an unconscious habit, and one she’s better at than her hours at the station might’ve led them to believe. “Hm,” she says, poking her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You’re good with those knives, that’s for sure. It makes sense that he’d rather have you as an ally than an enemy - help him take out all the threats, and take you out himself when you’re least likely to expect it.” 

“Perceptive,” Blake says, impressed despite her dawning horror; she’d been so _good_ at pushing it down, at talking herself out of circles, at _trusting_ him despite the signs. In one conversation, Yang’s forced her to undo all that. She echoes Yang’s earlier words to her: _Maybe it’s for the best._

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Yang says, and subtly jerks her head in his direction. “With how purposefully he’s showing off his swordplay, I’m amazed he even remembers you exist.” She rolls her eyes. “Men.”

And Blake laughs. Like Yang’s district partner at the parade. It’s accidental, and nearly shocking in its sincerity, but she laughs anyway. She doesn’t have a choice. “Men,” she agrees, and Yang laughs too. 

That’s the first time Blake thinks about living.

\--

The first time Yang thinks about dying - dying willingly - is their final day in the training center. 

Blake Belladonna, beautiful and clever and entirely obvious to everyone but herself, locates her at the camouflage station, attempting to blend her hand into a sandy coastline. She stares quizzically down at the pattern, eyebrows knitting together, and Yang makes the connection with a laugh. “You’ve never seen the ocean.”

“No.” Blake shakes her head. “What’s it like?” 

“Well, I’m no artist,” Yang says, wiggling her fingers, “but kinda like this. Blue, green, boundless - sometimes I think about just diving in the water and swimming as far as I can. Swimming away.” She adds, “Salty.”

And then Blake reaches for a paintbrush, deliberately dragging her fingers along the back of Yang’s hand, leaving streaks of blue paint. She pauses; Yang keeps breathing, but it’s a struggle. She says, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Yang says, wondering how to hide her heart before Blake can get a knife in it.

But she alters course, releases a sentiment entirely unexpected: “Don’t die.” She takes the brush, and swirls it into the yellow paint. “Don’t give up.” 

“Why do you care what happens to me?” Yang asks, almost unnerved at the authenticity, fighting against the way it makes her want to cry. Her skin screams raw where Blake had touched her, and the marks remain. 

“Because,” Blake says softly, “I think you deserve better than this.”

“I think we all do,” Yang counters, flaring up - it’s not just me, she wants to say. You deserve better. You. There are so few beautiful things left. _You_.

“But the rest of us aren’t here because there’s someone we care enough about to protect.” Blake lets it hang between them. “You’re a good person, Yang. Anyone can tell that much.”

Yang’d never understood the Capitol and its fascination with tattoos as a statement. Now she stares at the blue streaks across the back of her hand, and wonders about wearing them forever. 

She’d die, she thinks suddenly. She’d die for Blake, too.

\--

She spars for the first and last time after that, and one of her blows sends the trainer flying off the practice area and into the concrete, knocking him unconscious.

But she sweats the paint off, and finds without it, it’s a little easier to breathe.

\--

Their scores aren’t surprising. Adam pulls a nine. Blake gets a ten. He pretends to be happy for her, but she sees that facade cracking the instant she isn’t staring directly at it. 

Yang, though - Yang gets an eleven. 

“Her?” Adam spits out, clearly infuriated. He’s already seeing red. 

“She’s a genius,” Sienna says at the revelation, shocking Adam into silence. “You’re good with a weapon, Adam, and anyone will give you that. But unarmed? You’re nothing.” She jerks her head towards the blonde girl on-screen. “You can’t disarm her. She’ll kill you with her bare hands.”

“ _Her_?” Adam snarls again. “If she gets within my line of sight, she’s--”

“You think she doesn’t know how to dodge a sword?” Sienna asks point-blank, and Adam bristles once again with no response. She doesn’t have time to baby him. “Do you truly believe a girl whose primary skill is hand-to-hand combat doesn’t know how to evade an attack? You’re a fool if you cast her aside as a threat, Adam. She’s the most dangerous one here.”

Blake stares blankly at her picture, wondering if it’s intelligence, if it’s determination, passion, will. Wonders if Yang’s trained for this, if she’s excited, if she’s terrified. Wonders if it’s all just luck, a mixed bag of rot and gold. 

But Blake recalls the tapes of the reapings, across every district, and she remembers none of them as clearly as she remembers Yang’s - not even her own. Yang’s; a reaping that wasn’t supposed to be hers at all. 

_Ruby! Ruby! No!_

Armed guards in white holding her back, or trying to, but being no match for her strength. 

_I volunteer!_ She hears Yang’s scream in her mind, even now, days later, sees her pushing her way to the platform. _I volunteer as tribute!_

Or, Blake thinks, maybe it’s just what she’s always done to survive.

\--

Blake’s angle, they’d decided, is mysterious and alluring: she’s to answer her interview with short, vague responses, and smile as though she’s hiding something. It’s not hard. She’s hiding so much from herself already that it barely even feels like a tactic. 

Yang, on the other hand, goes for sexy and powerful, and she doesn’t even have to try. People in the audience are literally fanning themselves as she’s interviewed. She looks stunning in her dress, her heels, red-lipped and eyes that seem to match underneath the stage lights, muscle in her arms ever-present. 

“I just want my sister to know I love her,” she says at the end, a calculated vulnerability that makes every citizen watching want her even more. The audience moans about how _strong_ and _brave_ she is, protecting her younger sister like that, chattering amongst themselves with their programs in their hands.

“She makes me sick,” Adam says, face warped with hatred, and for the first time since the reaping, it isn’t her own safety she’s worried for.

\--

Call it a diversion. Confuse Adam, make him scramble for a new plan like scaling a collapsing cliff, make him rethink his entire strategy with her as a useful pawn. Because Yang had been right, and Blake’s instincts had been, too: Adam wants to _win_. And when you want to win, everyone else is a target.

So during her interview, she confesses, “I know I can win. But I’ve met someone here who I’d really like to keep alive, even more than that.” 

The interviewer goes insane, hands in his hair and mouth so wide Blake wonders if there’s an enhancement surgery for that specifically. “Another tribute?” he exclaims. “You’ve met someone _here?_ ” 

Blake shrugs, pretending to be coy. “That’s all I’ll say on the matter - other than I’m hoping we can team up in the arena. A short time is better than no time at all.” 

He continues begging for details, but she doesn’t give in, sticking to her strategy. The audience eats it up - she sees the camera focus on her as the show closes, hoping to catch her eyes flickering to another tribute, but she stares straight ahead, speaking to no one until they’re backstage. 

“Adam, she had her _own_ tactic _,_ ” Sienna says immediately, heading him off - and it’s a good thing, too, because he looks mad in the sense of _wild,_ fury making a rampage of his blood. Sienna points him to the elevator. “Go upstairs. We’ll meet you there.” He grits his teeth, but does as he’s told. It’s all part of the Games, Sienna’s made him think, and then she turns on Blake. “What the hell was that?” 

“I’m not an idiot,” Blake says lowly, and the act of being awake and alive has emboldened her. Breathing is its own form of rebellion. “And neither are you. We both know what Adam’s plan is - or was.” 

It’s a statement that forces Sienna into a corner, and she relents after a few seconds of the two of them staring each other down. “You’ll be his first target now, not his last,” she says. “You know that, right?” 

“It doesn’t matter the order,” Blake says, brushing by her to the elevator. “I’ve been number one on his list for a long, long time. But I’m not playing the Games on his terms anymore.”

“Well, you’ve given them a hell of a narrative,” Sienna says, following her, reluctantly impressed. “The whole Capitol’s dying to know who your lucky love interest could be, since it’s not him.” 

As if on cue, Yang shoves her arm through the elevator door just as it’s about to close. “Mind if I catch a ride?” she asks, stepping inside, her heels held in her hand. 

So, _maybe_ Blake should’ve thought through her plan just a _tiny_ bit further - because at the moment, Yang’s a foot away from her and absolutely the most beautiful girl Blake’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair spirals down her bare spine, and her eyes are dark, lined, lashes heavy. Her mouth looks like a hiding place, lips curling at the corners, clearly delighted by the twist of events - and Blake’s story for the cameras turns out to be more true than she’d anticipated.

“Hi,” Blake says breathlessly, her lungs inconveniently rendered useless. 

“Oh, it’s _you,_ ” Sienna says, throwing up her hands. Apparently Blake’s blatant staring and sudden lack of articulation is noticeable. “Of _course_ it is. Blake, you’re on your own.” 

“No, she’s not,” Yang murmurs, and brushes her fingers against Blake’s, hanging between them. “She’s got me.” 

\--

There’s a vibrancy to her when she disembarks, an urgency to her mouth. _Find me_ , she says, leaning close, grasping Blake’s hand. It’s the only touch Blake’s ever felt; the only one important enough to remember. _Find me in the arena. Or I’ll find you. Okay?_

“Why?” Blake asks again, unable to comprehend anything Yang says and the motivation behind it. She has someone else to live for, waiting anxiously at home; someone she’s already made hopeful promises to. But - but--

“I want you alive,” Yang implores in a single breath, and lets go of Blake’s hand so slowly it burns. Her irises reflect the outside Capitol lights, colors flashing as the parties in the street commence, one last night of celebration before their favorite tributes are slaughtered for their satisfaction. What she’s saying can’t be real, and yet it is. “I want you to live.”

You’re insane, Blake wants to say. None of us will live except one. And out of all of us, it should be you. It should be _you._

But the next morning, standing on the platform, she finds Yang three spaces down from her, and their eyes meet as if by gravitational pull. As if the tide itself is sending her a reminder of what she’s gained to fight for.

 _Find me,_ Yang mouths, and the cannons blast.


End file.
